


excelsior, onwards and upwards

by telekinetics



Series: where there's a god, there's always a legion of devils [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Trans Female Ben Hanscom, also this is NOT a genderbend in 2019 ben is a trans lesbian, it's a raven cycle au bc rhiannon and i are INSUFFERABLE, major char death is only a technicality, most of the relationships obviously arent as prevalent yet but they will be, no prev knowledge of trc required. we fucked w it a lot, save eddie/bill who r as incompatible romantically as blue n adam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 15:29:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinetics/pseuds/telekinetics
Summary: There were only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve. Either you’re his true love, or you killed him.





	excelsior, onwards and upwards

**Author's Note:**

> rhiannon and i were like "is anybody gonna make a trc au for IT" and then we didn't wait for an answer :-//

Eddie Kaspbrak had forgotten how many times he’d been told that he would kill his true love. 

Derry, Maine was a superstitious town in a superstitious state, and their little house stood on the outskirts of it all: scorned, avoided, and to the few convinced of the supernatural, revered. His mother, Sonia, traded in predictions—vague, uneasy prophecies usually shared with her clients over a cigarette, _Wheel of Fortune _blaring in the background. The ambience of the house was far from what a psychic’s quarters should look or feel like, but to those who pushed past their doubt and took the plunge it didn’t particularly matter much. Sonia’s predictions came true. Always. 

“Be aware of the weather,” her voice rang out now, rough and ugly. Outside, a crack of lightning made Eddie jump from his position at the top of the stairs. “Of the weather and the road.”

The client in question seemed unconvinced.

“That’s it?”

He couldn’t see his mother’s face from where he was, but based off the way the client recoiled, Eddie could guess the look she wore was far from pleasant. It was a familiar scene; the readings were accurate but hardly ever specific, which made most people dismiss Sonia Kaspbrak as a hack. This guy here seemed close to doing just that. Still, the way the rain had suddenly began to pound on their roof and echo throughout the house made the skin on Eddie’s arms turn to gooseflesh. 

Not for the first time, he thought about his own ailment—of the supernatural sort. Not his inhaler, or his pills, or his fear. His curse. Sonia read her son’s fortune often, and the tarot deck always spelled out the exact same thing: if Eddie were to kiss his true love, that true love would die. Like somebody had taken a fairytale and set it to horror instead. Altogether something closer to the Hans Christian Andersen version of the classic stories. Prince Charming, inverted. 

He was used to it by now. When he was nine, he’d taken his mother’s word as gospel, kept himself as isolated as she had wanted him to be, worried himself with the constant threat of sickness and death that seemed to be looming over his head. His mother had built up a very specific routine for him, and his internal clock had been trained to know exactly when it was time to swallow a pill, to the point that he barely needed the alarm on his watch anymore. He would stay up at night, convinced he was at risk of contracting some sort of silent disease, and that one press of his soulmate’s lips against his own would be enough to do them both in. The thought filled him with an unshakeable panic, leaving him to lie awake, sleepless, chest heaving and fumbling for the inhaler on his nightstand until he eventually scurried into the bathroom and brushed his teeth a second, third, and fourth time, cleaning until he felt his gums ache, and only then was he exhausted enough to drift off fitfully. 

At sixteen, much of that remained the same, but Eddie Kaspbrak, friendless, had decided he would never fall in love anyway, so it didn’t matter. 

The client was complaining, now. Asking for a refund. Sonia wasn’t responsive; she’d gone quiet, Eddie could tell by the rigidity of her shoulders. Like she was _feeling _something. He furrowed his brow, felt the frustration well up inside of him—being the decidedly normal son of a psychic paranoiac had its fair share of downfalls, and though he’d mostly given up his stubborn childhood habit of laying out the tarot deck and trying to divine something, anything, Eddie sometimes wished he could see something beyond what was there. His world seemed so small in comparison to the theoretical. 

Still, maybe it was for the better. Maybe all that seeing had been what had driven his mother crazy in the first place. 

“Eddie.” His mother’s voice wormed its way into his daydreams, and he blinked quickly, grounding himself. Sonia had turned to peer up at him, dark eyes narrowed and jaw fallen slightly ajar, like he was a particularly annoying fly circling above her and she was plotting out the most effective way to swat at him. “Get down here, Eddie-Bear.”

Her strangled tone made the constant thump in his chest speed up considerably; his mother hated when he eavesdropped on her readings. Felt the supernatural was too dirty and complex for someone _untouched_, that he was special in his un-specialness and she needed to make sure he walked a gentler path. Like he wouldn’t be able to keep up otherwise. Another twist in his gut, separate from the one in his chest—not fear, but anger. Resentment. A longing to escape. 

The client, still unsatisfied but realizing his protests were heeding no response, had left moments before. It was just him and his mom.

“Oh, Eddie. What have we said about you listening in when I’m with a client?”

“I—”

“Have you taken your medicine for the day?”

“Yes—”

“That’s my boy. Do you want to sit for me?”

Eddie hesitated. The smile Sonia wore was a sick sort of sweet, and the puzzle behind her eyes remained unsolved. 

“Alright.” He tentatively lowered himself into a chair, lowering his head to look at the cards splayed out across the table.

“That’s my baby boy.” She cooed, and Eddie felt the knot in him tighten. He was unsure which knot it was, this time. He kept his gaze fixed on the table and the way Sonia’s hands moved, unwilling to meet her eye. The way she handled the cards was practiced, but far from nimble; her fingers were smooth but unnatural, like an accordion player relearning the keys after breaking his arm. Eddie didn’t really know why Sonia used the cards for moments like these. They both already knew what she was going to say, and she didn’t need tarot to come to the conclusion. It would be the Judgement card, like it always was, the angel Gabriel sounding his trumpet call, enveloping Eddie in a fate he felt was choking him. 

The knot was anger. 

Then—as though she’d been listening in to his thoughts on top of everything—Sonia gathered all the cards and pressed them together into a neat stack. At this, Eddie finally dared to look her square in the face.

(_the knot was fear)_

“Eddie Kaspbrak. Sixteen years old, my _baby_. The world thinks you’re all grown up, but I know better.” She spoke quietly, possessive in a way that seemed more magnified than usual. The knot was fear. The knot was fear. 

“Mom?”

“The cards have something in mind for you, Eddie. The cards are saying that this is the year you fall in love.”

—

The dead were the only ones who remembered St. Mark’s Eve. 

Well, the dead—and psychics. 

The graveyard seemed different tonight, more alienating than usual. More wrong. Cool wind nipped at Eddie’s ears, and he burrowed deeper into his sweater, watching as his breath swirled through the air, something that seemed almost tangible yet was always untouchable. He’d always hated the fucking graveyard. Hated the idea of dead people buried deep in the ground below him, hated the idea that he was walking on top of them, hated the estranged feel of the lots at night. It was like a bastardization of magic. 

“Tonight is a _night_.” His mother said, and he shivered despite himself. The energy between the two of them had been particularly tense since that afternoon’s reading; Sonia seemed intent on ignoring the revelation, and Eddie was right behind her on that. It’s why he hadn’t protested to coming along with her tonight, the first time he’d done so in three years. Sonia knew he couldn’t stand St. Mark’s Eve, couldn’t stand the graveyard, but she dragged him along as often as she could anyway, only relenting once Eddie began to point out how likely his allergies were to act up around residue formaldehyde, how the cold had always been prone to gifting him runny noses. Besides, it’s not like Eddie could _see _anything. 

He’d always figured she was trying to punish him for something. He wasn’t sure what that was. 

He breathed in and out, slow. April twenty-fourth. Saint Mark’s Eve. The ruins of the church behind them felt like an omen; the destruction of something holy being the framework for this specific night made Eddie’s skin crawl. He wasn’t particularly religious or anything like that, but he had vague memories of psalms breaking through quiet afternoons when he’d been younger and riding his bike past. Ever since the church had been closed, the silence felt stiff and unnatural. 

“Stay close to me, Eddie.” His mother breathed, and he rolled his eyes. “Can you hear anything?”

“No.” He answered, pointedly. Because he didn’t. He never did. And there was no fucking reason for him to be here. 

St. Mark’s Eve, both the day itself and its successor, were hidden from the general public. Not on purpose, not out of some conspiratorial need—people, especially people in Derry, simply didn’t know, or didn’t care to know, about the holiday. If ‘holiday’ was the right word. There was nothing celebratory about it. Then again, although the day wasn’t Derry-specific in and of itself, there was nothing celebratory about the town 

(_skin crawl dirty screaming i’ll blow you for a dime a quarter for free)_

to begin with. 

“There’s a lot to hear.” His mother said, and Eddie thought it felt like a warning, almost. He paused, taking in the sounds of the graveyard; cicadas singing, wind rustling dead grass. Disturbing, impenetrable silence. 

“Not for me.” He answered. It came out ruder than he expected it to, and he fought against his wince. Next to him his mother tsked, but didn’t go any further than that. She was preoccupied with something besides him. He guessed he had St. Mark to thank for that, because Lord knows she never took her eyes off him under any other circumstances.

He remembered being younger, his curiosity getting the better of him and asking his mother about the semantics of it all—skepticism and wonder fought a war inside of him, and he’d always been a boy with too many questions, forever unsure whether or not he really wanted the answers. He still could call to mind exactly what his mother had told him: _the graveyard lies on the corpse road, and everybody who will be dead within a year must follow it tonight. _

_ If they aren’t dead yet, then how come I can’t see them?_

_ It isn’t their physical bodies following the trail. It’s their spirits. They’re not dead yet, but they’re as good as that. Nothing can save them, really. _

_ So only psychics can see, because they know the future. _

_ That’s my smart boy. _

_ So you can’t save them? _

_ Even if I could, I would never turn my back on you long enough for that. These people are unsaveable, but there’s hope for you yet. _

_ But, mama, you’ve never seen me on the road, have you?_

_ No. But better safe than sorry._

It hadn’t been the whole truth, but with his mother, it never was. She’d kept some important information from him, he’d figured it out with a simple internet search, and he’d wondered about it for a while, whether the omission was compulsive, as all her other ones usually were, or if the supernatural tilt to it all gave her more meaning. If she was actively trying to keep him in the dark for the sake of keeping him in the dark, or if she knew something he didn’t. 

Either way, there _was _one other reason a non-seer saw a would-be ghost on St. Mark’s Eve: either they were your true love, or you’d killed them. 

Next to him, Sonia inhaled deeply. Eddie bristled, tearing open the notepad he’d brought with him. 

“Is it—?”

“Who are you?” She asked abruptly, then began reciting a list of names that Eddie, holding his breath, jotted down as quick as he could manage. “Edward Corcoran. Adrian Mellon. Betty Ripsom.”

He froze. Betty Ripsom was in his grade. Betty Ripsom was his age. Betty Ripsom had braces, and plaited braids that made her look younger than she really was, and he _knew_ her.

“What’s your name?” His mother’s voice was more emphatic now, commanding and frustrating, and it thankfully tore his thoughts away from Betty Ripsom and her gooseberry-gray eyes. “What’s your _name_?”

Eddie looked up and—_fuck_.

“Mom,” he breathed. “Mom, I see him.”

Where there should have been nothing, where it seemed as though there had always been nothing, there was a person. A boy. Young. His age? 

(_like betty)_

Probably his age, yeah.

“There’s nobody there,” Sonia snapped, jerking away from him. She ripped the notebook out of his hands. “I need to get the others. You’re not used to doing this anymore.”

Eddie could barely hear her. The air seemed to have gotten quicker, and it was whistling loudly in his ears. He registered vaguely as his mother uncharacteristically moved further away from him, walking towards the plots more to the left of them. Eddie kept his eyes on the shape of the crumpled boy in front of him. Everything about him seemed stagnant, dead—except his eyes. His eyes were like a wild animal staring at slaughter, wide and confused and pleading and hopelessly _alive. _

There were no other discernible features about him, not really. Eddie could tell it was a boy, and he could tell he was young, but not because he looked it. Something about the mannerisms, the fidgeting that Eddie could only vaguely see. He was young, and he was a boy—but was he real? He had been. Technically, he still was. 

But he wouldn’t be for much longer.

“What’s your name?” Eddie asked, eyes darting over to where his mother was and back. Sonia was preoccupied with the rest of the—the ghosts. How did she bear it? There was no awe in it, now that he’d had a taste. All he could think about was that all these people, no different from him in chemical makeup, no different from him in much more than that, would all be gone within a year. Not gone in a casual sense, not moved away or far from reach, but truly, completely _gone. _

The ghost—the _boy _didn’t answer him. He seemed stuck, feet bolted to the ground, yet untamed. Struggling against shackles, almost, but Eddie could see no physical chains on him. 

“Please.” He said, working to keep the fear out of his voice. The boy turned to look at him, now, and his eyes—yeah. Definitely untamed. “Who are you?”

Eddie realized suddenly that there _was _something identifiable about the shape of the boy: a hawaiian shirt was wrapped around him, unbuttoned over a tee, 

(_white? )_

(_did it matter?)_

and it popped out too much against the pale subdued frame of him. 

“Richie.” His voice was far away, but not whispered. It was like the third echo after the initial scream. Not really there. Not really there at all. 

“Is that all?” Eddie whispered, and the shake in his voice was too prominent to be mistaken for anything else. The boy—_Richie_—widened his eyes, mouth slightly open. 

“That’s all there is.”

Eddie had the distinct feeling that death had taken something very important from Richie. That whoever he’d been in life, he was not that person right now. That, relatively soon, he would never be that person ever again. Before he had time to properly ruminate on that, Richie dropped to the floor, body twitching violently, and Eddie had to choke down the scream threatening to spill from his lips, felt as though he would set the church on fire with grief and fear if he let it loose. 

“He’s _dying._” He called out, desperately. “_Mom_, he’s _dying_.”

Sonia turned to him and Eddie forced himself to meet his eyes. Her head was cocked to the side, and she looked less like his mother and more like the person he would sometimes hear kids talking about when they were trying to get a rise out of him—_fucking lunatic. Her and her son, both of them, fucking freaks. Fucking scary. She’ll probably kill hm, y’know, she’ll probably spazz out like the freak she is and kill him. _

“There’s nobody there, sweetheart.” She said, voice strange and tight, and Eddie felt something helpless in him burning. “Were you lying to me about taking your medication today?”

Eddie turned back to Richie—but he was gone. No trace of him left behind. A trailer for what was to come. Was he going crazy? No—he’d seen somebody, he knew that for sure, but if _he _had then surely his mother had too, so why would she—

_There were only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve. Either you’re his true love, or you killed him. _

—

“T-Tell me ag-gain why y-you think a suh-s-suh—”

“Psychic,” Bev provided, and next to her Bill flushed. “Let me know why the _hell_ we’re seeing a psychic?”

“‘Energy work.’”

“Meaning?”

Richie pretended to think about it for a moment, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and comically twisting his eyebrows. From his perch near the window, Stan rolled his eyes. The restaurant was rowdy in a way that made them all feel oddly exposed, but the dull thud of music coupled with the crowd of people gathered meant their conversation would have been private even if they hadn’t been looking for just that. 

“Fuck if I know, Bevvie. Haystack’s words.”

“Don’t call her that.” Bev warned.

“I’m jesting. I’m a joker.”

“Don’t quit your day job.” 

“Oh, ho, Stan the Man gets off a good one!”

“_G-guys_.” Bill cut in with force, and they all stopped, looking down at the table guiltily. In front of Bill lay a thick notebook, decorated with newspaper clippings and the familiar narrow curve of the currently absent Ben Hanscom’s handwriting. It struck them all at the same time that it had been exactly three months to the day since George Denbrough’s disappearance. 

“Sorry, Big Bill.” Richie muttered, and although he was aiming for it to come across as casual, playful, a way for them to move on—Bill heard the genuinely apologetic note in his tone and it made his shoulders relax some.

“So, this thing, this—_It_. What do we know so far?”

Bev was relatively new to their group. It didn’t quite feel that way at all, he felt like they’d known each other for ages; it was disconcerting to think that she’d never even met Georgie. Richie wasn’t sure why she was as invested in their bullshit as she was, what specific aspect of the whole It business drew her in the way it did them, but he was glad regardless. She just _fit_. Bev had short, choppy red hair she’d cut herself and carried cigarettes around with her everywhere and sometimes—if he bugged her enough—she’d let Richie snatch one, and they’d sit outside and share it. She’d made fun of him mercilessly when he bragged about being a seasoned smoker right before taking his first inhale and launching into a particularly taxing coughing fit. Bev was a really cool dude. She was good for them. They were good for her. 

“S-So the legend g-goes that whoever w-w-wakes It up, is granted a fuh-fuh-favor. A-Anything they w-want.”

Bev nodded, although she’d known as much. Sometimes, It and It’s favor were all Bill ever talked about. Like there was this _something _inside of him that didn’t rest right, like he needed to talk about It or he’d die. 

(Richie could relate. It was all Richie ever thought about.)

“A-And there’s this th-thing, running all throughout D-Derry called the l-l-leh-l—” Bill grit his teeth and clenched his knuckles, and Richie watched as they turned white. Bill had always stuttered. It was a lot worse now. “_Ley line_. The l-ley line.”

“Right. Electromagnetic energy, hence why we’re seeing the psychic.” 

“_Please _don’t use ‘electromagnetic’ and ‘psychic’ in the same sentence.” Stan groaned, folding his arms, and Richie turned fully to him now, mouth halfway open to say whatever shit his brain wasn’t quick enough to catch, but something made him stop. The way the light hit Stan had him looking as though he were barely there, like he was a paper airplane suspended mid flight, or the shadow of an old photograph. Dust seemed to pass right through his body, almost. Richie blinked at him, alarmed, but then Stan was just Stan again. Stan the Man. 

He kind of felt like he was going crazy. 

It’s not that he’d been seeing things lately. He would swear on his life—and there was little he’d stake that on—that he hadn’t been hallucinating, not really. But ever since Georgie disappeared and

_(you will live because of IT someone else on the ley line is dying when they should not and so you will live when you should not)_

they’d started the search, Richie hadn’t quite felt like himself. He knew Bill hadn’t either, but that was different, of course, Bill’s brother had been killed—_g-gone missing_, he always insisted, but deep down Richie thought they all knew better than that—and, besides, he was _Bill_. He could’ve killed Georgie himself and they all would’ve still backed him up. Richie didn’t have that kind of influence, nor did he have the luxury of having a personality as subdued as Bill’s could be; if Bill spent the day quiet, lost in his own thoughts, chin tipped back to look up at the clouds, well, nobody really batted an eye. Meanwhile, Richie felt that if he wasn’t running his mouth every time they reached a lull in conversation, everybody would somehow know there was something deeply _wrong _in him. 

“And the ley line is how It’s managed to stay alive for over thousands of years.” Bev finished. Coming from anybody else it would’ve sounded disbelieving. Richie would’ve forced himself to sound disbelieving. Anything else would’ve felt too reverent, too sickly hopeful. Much too real for all of them. 

“E-Exactly.” 

“Can we take a break from all of this for the rest of the day?” Stan said, suddenly. He was thumbing the edge of the table, looking down at a fixed point. “I barely got any sleep last night.”

“Good ol’ roll in the hay, Stan the Man? Can’t say I’m surprised—”

“Beep beep, Trashmouth.” Stan shot back, more scathingly than Richie had been expecting. He recoiled accordingly, and sank back into his seat. 

“H-how come you’re h-huh-having trouble s-sleeping?” Bill asked, fingers drumming on the table anxiously. He wanted to talk about It, Richie could tell. Bill _really_ wanted to talk about It, and Stan wanted to do anything but. It was a strange, deep seated difference between them. 

“Well,” Stan began, the edge to his voice so readily apparent that Bill couldn’t quite conceal his wince. “My parents were murdered, I’m basically living in hiding, and I haven’t spoken to anybody outside this group for three months. And all of you think an interdimensional demon is the miraculous puzzle piece that will fix that.”

“Stan,” Bev started, but Bill was quicker. 

“I-It _isn’t _a d-demon.” He said, roughly, and Stan’s eyes blazed, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Th-this isn’t coming out of f-fuh-fucking nowhere, it’s f-folkl-lore, it’s—”

“It’s _wrong_ is what It is. If it’s true—and it can’t be, Bill, it _can’t _be—then everything dictated by the laws of nature would be rendered _useless_, okay? It’s wrong_. _Demon or not, it’s _wrong_. There’s—there’s _rules_, Bill. And I don’t want any part of it, I _don’t_, you can do whatever you want, you can go and call science blasphemous since you’ve all decided to throw common sense out and join a fucking cult, but there is _nothing _holy about this.” Stan said, voice raw and thick and bordering on hysterical. Richie’s stomach churned at the image he’d been fed of the Uris elders, guts spilling out in their own living room, while Stan rocked back and forth, curled up in a ball under the table and trembling. Completely fine, _whole_, save for a cut on his left cheekbone that had gifted him a spidery scar. It was Ben and Bill who had found him, after an hour of waiting at the Barrens for the last of their makeshift club to show up; Richie and Bev had stayed behind after winning the coin toss. They’d been taking swigs from the sole bottle of beer they’d managed to cop from the store when Ben and Bill had scrambled in, the former desperately trying and failing to find the right words to get the severity of the situation across while the latter merely held on tightly to a Stan who’d been knocked out cold from his own shock by then, eyes rolling to the back of his head in a way that made Richie’s skin crawl. Nothing Benny could’ve said would’ve conveyed the panic welling up in all of them better than that. And Bill’s expression—cold in a way he’d never seen on him before. Calculated. Like his mind was made up. 

That was the day before Georgie disappeared. That was the day before Richie 

(_you will live because of IT)_

had died and been brought back. _There is nothing holy about this. _

“Y-You feel it tuh-too,” was Bill’s answer. “W-We all do. Don’t w-wuh-we? Th-that we w-were meant t-t-to be here?”

Stan screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly. One of his curls spilled onto his forehead, and Richie was struck with that same peculiar feeling that Stan wasn’t really _Stan _at all. 

“I’m leaving.” He said, quietly. 

“I-I don’t th-think you c-c-can outrun this, S-Stuh-Stanley.”

“Bill.” Bev said, tightly. “Stop it.”

“I think it’s really rich of you to preach about outrunning something.” Stan shot back, standing up so quick he knocked his glass of water over. 

“Stan.” Richie said, tone much more sober than he thought was normal for him. He wasn’t sure how to continue. It was fine. No one had heard him, anyway. 

“I’m leaving.” Stan repeated for good measure, before stepping out of their booth and doing just that. Richie had half a mind to follow him, but when he shifted over to look at where Stan had just been he saw only the ugly glow of the yellow lights on the roof of the restaurant. He frowned, before shaking it off; Stan had clearly been in a rush to get out of here. 

“D-Doesn’t he _g-get _it?” Bill broke the silence, accentuating it with a fist to the tabletop. “_It _can b-bring his puh-p-arents back if we play our c-c-cards right. It c-c-can do a-anything we w-want. S-Stan, Juh-G-Georgie.”

“My mother.” Bev added. “If it’s true, It can bring back my mother.”

They turned to Richie, expectantly. Oh. Fuck.

“Your mom, you say?” He nodded, approvingly. “I second that one. Can I pile my wish on top of yours?”

“Beep beep, Tozier.” Bev choked on a laugh, kicking him underneath the table. Bill cracked a smile. 

“That’s too many Beeps in the span of, like, twenty minutes. We’re gonna need to lay down some ground rules and regulations.” Richie stated, adopting a serious tone that sent Bev spilling into laughter again. 

“Everything you say is _trash_, Rich.” 

“S-Seconded.” 

And, just like that, the air was a little lighter, their grins marginally more relaxed. Bill would apologize to Stan tonight, and vice-versa. Benny would be with them next time, and she had a way of keeping them on track with her research better than any of them ever could. They’d find It, get their favor, and—

And Richie would _know. _Would _understand_. Why him? Out of every tragedy the universe spit out, why was he the exception? 

“You know,” a new voice cut in, nasally impatient. “Usually, when a group of people sit down at a restaurant table, they actually order something off the menu.”

Richie, Bill, and Bev stared up at their waiter; he was about five foot five and had a fanny pack unironically wrapped around his midsection. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s just really funny to me,” he said, in a tone that made it clear he didn’t think it was funny at all, “how this is, what? The third time you all gather around here this week? Like you’re fucking Disney Channel protagonists?”

“Disney Channel.” Bev echoed. The waiter huffed.

“Oh my God. Riverdale. Whatever. At least they order milkshakes on Riverdale, you fuckers.”

“Do you guys _sell_ milkshakes? I’ve never seen them on the menu.” Richie asked, delightedly.

“That is _so _not the point—”

“What flavor milkshake do you guys want? It’s on me.”

“The milkshakes were an _analogy_.”

“I ordered a sparkling water.” Bev said.

“First off, fuck you, sparkling water sucks and causes heartburn. Also it’s fucking free.”

“Could I get a sparkling water, actually?” 

The waiter—Eddie, his name tag read in a hideous, wonderful fluorescent orange—turned his decidedly intense glare onto Richie then, cheeks flushed with anger in a way that made him look almost out of breath, and seemed on the verge of plunging the pen lodged behind his ear directly into Richie’s chest cavity before Bill spoke up.

“You’re in m-m-my huh-h-history class, right? Eddie K-K-Kuh—”

“Kaspbrak.” Eddie nodded, softening a bit when he met Bill’s eye. _Oh?_

“Y-You’re the k-kid who gave the l-luh-lecture on c-c-cholera.”

“It's an infectious and often fatal bacterial disease of the small intestine.” He mumbled.

“D-Do you g-guys sell s-s-soda? We’ll all t-take p-p-pepsis.”

“I’ll take a coke.” Richie corrected.

“Three pepsis.” Eddie said, ignoring him. He seemed flustered in a completely different way now. “Coming right up. Thanks.”

“N-No problem, man. S-Sorry a-about these a-a-assholes.” He winked, and—_oh, oh, ohhhh. _Eddie disappeared behind the counter, and Richie jumped up, pointing an accusatory finger at Bill. 

“You totally wanna fuck that mean twink!”

“Sh-shut up, Richie.” 

“He’s kinda cute.” Bev said, smirking. Bill rolled his eyes, but was faintly blushing all the same. “You should talk to him.”

“Ah, Stuttering Bill doesn’t have the kind of hubris for that.” Richie rubbed his chin, in mock-thought. “This seems like a job for a wingman with palpable charm.”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood to matchmake.” Bev said, dryly.

“Quiet, Bevvie dah-ling, this is _exceedingly_ serious.” 

“I can’t tell if that was supposed to be Scottish or Australian.”

“E-English, I think.”

“No way in hell that was English.”

“At least I nailed the European part.”

“Do you think Australia’s a part of Europe, Richie?”

“Pip, pip, cheerio!” He said, picking up the accent once again. “I’m off to get our good friend Big Bill a lad! Hopefully the use of that nickname will be persuasive enough on its own.”

“W-Wait, Richie, d-d-don’t—”

“No need to thank me, dah-ling!” 

And with that, he jogged over to where Eddie had gone, no longer visible from the remaining party’s vantage points. Back at the table, Bill let out a long-suffering sigh.

“This sh-should be g-good.”

—

_“Eddie-bear, you know I worry when you don’t pick up the phone on the first three rings.”_

“Sorry, mama.” Eddie responded, robotic, as he maneuvered himself through the kitchen on his way to get the drinks for the assholes at table 9. 

_“It sent me to _voicemail,_ Eddie. Thank God I remembered the Hanlon kid works there or I would’ve called the police.”_

“My phone died, mama.” _because we were at a graveyard all night, you fucking psychopath. _Eddie blinked.The force of the thought threw him, so he swallowed and added, “I love you.”

_“Oh, I love you, too, Eddie-bear. I just wanted to let you know I’ll probably be in the middle of a reading when you get home, so let yourself in through the back door. I think it’s some boys from your school. Wouldn’t want them to tease you.”_

Eddie paused. Something rushed through him then, like an internal draft of air, and he shuddered. 

“Which boys?”

_“Hm, it says here it’s filed under Richie Tozier, but I don’t think he’s the only one being read, he mentioned something about bringing along some friends? There’s just so many variables here, sweetie, I don’t want you overwhelmed.”_

Eddie’s felt his lungs start to constrict but he didn’t reach for his inhaler. His arms were numb in that bad way, the kind of numb where it felt like there were dozens of little needles pricking something deeper than your flesh. Eddie fucking hated needles.

_“Do you know him, Eddie-bear?”_

“No.” He choked out. “I don’t know—

_(richie is that it thats all there is)_

—anyone by that name, mama. I have to go now, I have an order to prep, and this isn’t even my phone, I’ll see you at home, goodbye, I love you, bye.”

He hung up. He felt dizzy. Almost as an afterthought, he scooped up his inhaler and hit the trigger, the cool medicinal taste a familiar comfort. He breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He hit the trigger again.

“Everything alright?” Eddie jumped, and Mike held his hands up, taking a step back. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s fine, it’s—oh, here.” He handed the phone back to Mike, who flashed him a grin and pocketed it. “Thanks for letting me use it. Sorry she called you.”

“Not a problem, Eddie, just hope it helped you avoid some trouble.”

“It _really_ did.” Eddie confirmed, and Mike chuckled, tipping his head amicably. He was holding a tray with three pepsis.

“I’ll have Cheryl her these over to table 9, we’re both officially off.” 

“God, thanks, Mike.” 

“Take care of yourself, okay? You look a bit pale.” Mike added, and Eddie nodded absentmindedly at his retreating form as Mike passed the tray on and exited the building. His heart was still pounding erratically. It was just 

_(hes DYING mom hes DYING)_

a name, a fairly common one at that, there was no reason to think there was any connection between the Richie his mom was seeing tonight and, and—

“Oh, don’t tell me that was your boyfriend. Fuck you, I’d be a great wingman!” 

Eddie whirled around. The kid from _that_ table, the one with the glasses and the rat’s nest in his hair was peering down at him with a vexing smirk. 

“Excuse me?”

“You remember Bill, from five minutes ago? You guys have history together? I would’ve guessed _chemistry_, but maybe that would be too cliche. Do you like cliches? You’re wearing a fanny pack, so I’m gonna go with yes on that one. Anyway, you should dump your boyfriend and come sit down with us.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Eddie replied, witheringly. “Excuse me, I have to get home, actually.”

“What, right now?”

“You caught me! I also don’t want to talk to you!” 

“Aw, Eds. You wound me.”

“_What_ did you just call me?”

“Okay, look, here’s the sitch: my socially inhibited friend B-B-Bill thinks you’re cute, but he’s unwilling to make a move.”

Despite his better instincts, Eddie felt a flutter of interest. Bill Denbrough had very pretty eyes and a gentle, slow voice, and he reminded Eddie of those little porcelain figurines of children frowning that would spook him when he was younger. Or were those russian nesting dolls? Either way, there was a handsome fragility about it that Bill Denbrough captured, but it felt like a mask. Like there was more to him. An elegance in anger, perhaps. He folded his arms.

“So?”

“_So_, could you do me a favor and come over and talk to him?”

“Do you see how I’m wearing this apron? It means I’m working. For a living.”

“You _just_ said you had to get home.”

“I’m surprised your attention span caught that.” Eddie sniped, and something in the other boy’s expression shut off for a millisecond, before he pushed the smile back up onto his face. 

“Look, I’ll take care of it.”

“Take care of it,” he echoed. 

“Yeah, we can pool some money together. How much do you make in, like, an hour?”

Eddie let out a bark of a laugh, eyebrows flying together angrily. The boy’s smile dimmed.

“Did I say something—”

“I am not a _prostitute._” Eddie said, before he could finish. The boy’s jaw dropped open.

“That—that’s so absolutely not even close to what I was saying—”

“You just offered to _pay me _to _spend time _with somebody.”

“Actually, as someone who knows an expert amount about prostitutes,” he started, coming back from the faltering quickly enough, “I promise you that nobody’s confusing _you _for one—”

“Very boldcoming from someone who looks like a cross between a muppet and the Owl from Winnie The Pooh.”

“I’ll have you know the Owl from Winnie the Pooh is a reputable character in fiction, and also fuck you, you’re only saying that because my glasses magnify my eyes—”

“_Hoo! Hoo!”_

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then?”

Eddie paused.

“Tell your friend to send a better PR manager next time.” 

“First off, I’m the best in the business, and hold up one second—”

“Goodbye!” Eddie insisted, turning towards the front exit of the diner. As he made his way out, he registered vaguely that the boy was shouting “wait!” and drawing the attention of several patrons, not excluding his fellow Table 9 Heathens. Eddie caught Bill’s eye. He looked mortified, which was actually kind of endearing. 

Hopefully, this whole scene would serve as a lesson in choosing better friends.

—

_hey stanley cld u do me a favor pls?_

_ What’s up Ben?_

_ i have some errands i need to run for my ma but i don’t think i’ll make it back in time for the reading if i leave now _

_ bev texted me saying u prbly weren’t going….think u cld pick up some stuff for me?_

_ Didn’t take long for Bev to start gossiping, huh?_

_ Kidding. Kind of. Yeah, I’ll take care of it. Send me the info._

_ do u know the hanlon farm? just say you’re there on my behalf, i already texted mike about it_

_ Perfect._

_ thank you <3_

_ also bev was just worried about you, she wasn’t gossiping_

_ Biased._

_ shut up!!!!!!!_

The Hanlon farm was right on the edge of Derry’s large expanse of forest, not far at all from where he’d first met Bill and Richie one fateful middle school afternoon, playing pirates until it had gotten dark. Richie had been the supposedly savage villain type, howling at Bill and Stan while brandishing a crooked tree branch. As per usual, he hadn’t succeeded in much but making them all laugh. Bill had leaned into the swashbuckling persona that heroes usually wore with pride, while Stan—a kid, but sensible even then—had played along, sure, but kept to rolling his eyes at the others’ antics more often than anything. 

Maybe he was growing tired of always playing along.

When the farm came into view, the first thing Stan noticed was the cow of considerable size right beyond the fence. The second thing he noticed was the boy that was milking it. 

Okay, so this really was a _farm_, then.

“Um, hello.” Stan called out, fiddling with the seams of his cardigan. He felt approximately eighty-five years old. The boy, who seemed just about done, looked up, and sent him a wave that looked almost shy. He grabbed a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his hands off as he made his way over to Stan.

“You’re Benny’s guy?” He asked, leaning his hip against the fence. He was squinting against the sun, and there was sweat glinting off his brow. His smile was kind, Stan thought. His eyes and his face and his smile, all kind. “I’m Mike Hanlon.”

“Stan Uris. Yeah, I’m here for Ben.”

“God, I love that girl. You know she has a new poem memorized every time she comes? She always recites them as I get everything together.”

“I wish she would show me her original writing, but she refuses to let it see the light of day.” Stan said, the corners of his mouth upturned. “So, how does this work? Is the reciting poetry a requirement because we might run into some issues.”

Mike laughed, low and steady. Stan’s smile widened. 

“I’m sure we can figure something out. Come on in,” he said, unlatching the gates. Stan obliged, stepping through and following as Mike led to a smaller barn a little to the left of the rest of what seemed to be the household. “Benny’s also always talking about how much of a mess this place is, architecture wise. Says the walls are all gonna fall into each other, says it makes no structural sense. I tell her that most things around here don’t make much sense, but they work regardless. She still insists on giving me tips on rearranging things to better the feng-shui, or whatever.”

“Hm. I can’t do that either, actually.”

“What can you do, Stan Uris?”

Stan considered, eyes raking over the inside of the barn. It was smaller than it seemed from the outside, although that might’ve had something to do with the amount of objects stuffed on top of each other. There seemed to be no common thread connecting any of them; they were all just regular household items. A toaster here, a bucket of pens there. And yet Stan couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something palpably_ strange_ about the place, too. 

“I can teach you how to spot the differences between a male yellow-throated sparrow and a female one.”

“Oh?” Mike said, chuckling. “Go on.”

“Well, males have a pale yellow spot on the throat in fresh plumage. Some females have it, but overall it’s much less prominent.” Stan said, tearing his eyes away from a crooked board on a table. The barn was lovely for the most part, it felt safe, but something in the lack of order made Stan’s fingers start to covertly tap out a pattern onto the hem of his jeans. This was the first time he’d been anywhere alone in three months. Ever since that day, he’d always had one of the others by his side, alternating between spending the nights at Bill’s or Richie’s—clearly he’d be at the latter’s tonight—but never Bev or Ben. Not just because they were girls, or anything like that, but because Bev’s dad, from what they’d heard from her, would kill her if he caught her with a boy at night. When she’d said this, it had made Stan blush, and he’d had half a mind to be like _Bev, that would never be a problem with _me_, I promise_, but then he hadn’t. Because she already knew. Because it had nothing to do with that at all. Because when Bev said her dad would ‘kill her,’ he had the feeling that she wasn’t hyperbolizing, not really. And, well, he couldn’t stay with Ben, because Ben’s mom cared too much. Ben’s mom was attentive and present in a way Bill and Richie’s parents simply weren’t, and it would be too much of a hassle on her end, something Stan wasn’t willing to do despite her offering. 

It was strange that nobody in the town seemed to see him, wasn’t it? It was strange that nobody had cared when he’d missed the last month of sophomore year. Adults in Derry had always turned a blind eye to what people below the drinking age did, but this felt different. It was like he’d died alongside his parents. Like he was a ghost. 

“Cool. Just a random fact you’ve picked up?” Mike’s voice grounded him, and Stan did his best to keep his brain tethered to the earth. 

“I bird watch.” He admitted, and Mike’s smile grew brighter, curiouser. “I have this book filled with pictures of birds I’ve taken. I just sit down by that fountain, you know, the one about three blocks from Neibolt? I just sit there and they come to me, and if it’s a species I haven’t photographed before then I print it out and add it to the collection. I think my parents named me Stanley because I was born seventy-five”

“You know, for a crone, you’re not too shabby looking.” He said, in between laughter. Stan raised his eyebrow.

“Weak pick-up line, Hanlon.”

Mike blushed, rubbing the nape of his neck, embarrassed. It reminded Stan of when Bill would duck his head after stuttering on a particularly frustrating word.

“Sorry, I—”

“Off the record, you’re not too shabby looking either. For a farmer.” Stan said, and Mike seemed to relax at that.

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He mused, reaching into a box and pulling out a dusty watch. He held it out to Stan, who scrunched his nose and blew on it heartily before pocketing it. “You better have another bird fact for me next time.”

“Next time?” 

Mike shrugged, rubbed the nape of his neck again. He had dimples, Stan noticed. One was more pronounced than the other.

“You never know.”

“Ben didn’t mention anything about payment, so I’m assuming that’s all covered…?”

“Oh, it’s free of charge. That’s a favor for her more than anything, it’s not one of her mom’s pieces.” Mike explained, leading them out of the barn again. The sun was setting, the sky a gentle orange, more beautiful than any place like Derry ever had a right to be. Slightly at a distance, he saw a dog running around so quickly he seemed to be almost flying. “Ah, geez. He looks possessed, doesn’t he? Here boy, here!”

The dog trotted up to them, wagging his tail happily. 

“Stan, meet Mr. Chips. Mr. Chips, meet Stan.” Mike crouched down to run his hands through the dog’s shiny fur, cooing at it like one would a small child. Stan couldn’t have kept the grin off his face if he’d tried. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Chips.” He said, amusedly. “If you’ve got him out here next time then I think I’ll _have _to come back.”

“Oh, he’ll be here, alright. Ain’t that right, Mr. Chips?” The dog barked, and Mike swooped down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “That’s a good boy.”

“God. This is like that thing in myths where the heroes are tempted into staying in one place forever, isn’t it? And the minute I agree, Mr. Chips here grows two other heads and eats me?” Stan said, dryly. Mike, standing up and dusting his hands off on his worn jeans, merely let out another laugh. Stan didn’t think he’d ever met somebody who laughed that much. He rather liked it. 

“I don’t know. Is it working?”

“I really do have to get going.” Stan said, apologetically. Mike nodded, pushing open the fence again. 

“Hope to see you again sometime soon, Stan.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you too, Mike.”

As he walked away from the farm, reality seemed to return to him. The weight of the watch in his left pocket felt off-balance. He shoved his hand into the empty right one, trying to even it out, huffing when it didn’t appease him. He pulled out the watch, narrowing his eyes. It was old, or looked old, golden and rusty. There was little to no sun left above him, but the watch seemed to glitter all the same. He flipped it around, feeling a groove under his fingers. An engraving. He furrowed his eyebrows, squinting at the—numbers? Yeah, numbers. A date. A five and a—

His blood went cold. _5/29. _May twenty-ninth. 

No. He was hallucinating. There was no way. He closed his eyes, breathing in and out. He opened them. _5/29_. Like it was mocking him. _5/29_. 

The day Georgie disappeared. 

The day after his parents were killed. 

He threw the watch down onto the grass, taking several steps backwards, trying to stifle the scream that was burgeoning inside him. This was fine. He was fine. It was a coincidence. 

_There’s no such thing as coincidence_, Bill’s voice echoed through his head, and he could almost _see _him saying it, sitting upright and serious with no sign of a stutter at all. Richie had once said that Bill never noticed when he went a full sentence without stuttering. The rest of them always noticed. Stan always noticed. 

He tentatively leaned down to pick up the watch again. It showed no evidence of damage, although Stan couldn’t bring himself to look at it for too long, covering it with both his hands and quickening his pace resolutely. The Hanscom’s house wasn’t far from here. This was fine. He was fine. It was a coincidence. He wished the sun was still out. The whimsy that had felt suspended in midair moments ago back at Mike’s had turned sour. 

At night, Derry felt like magic. And at night, magic felt like it might be a terrible thing. 

—

Bev felt like there was blood caked under her fingernails.

There wasn’t. She was looking at them, and there wasn’t. She’d washed her hands raw the past few weeks, scrubbed every inch of her body as best she could, but she still couldn’t shake the _feeling_. Warm, sticky, coating her completely, she had felt it start to _dry_, could almost taste the copper even now. The smell. The voices. Her father’s face when he’d found her screaming in the corner of her small bathroom, fingers pulling at her hair—his eyes had zeroed in on her and her alone. No mention of the blood dressing every inch of the walls and tub and floor. He’d looked at her like she belonged in an asylum, but there was a curious edge to it that made her want to vomit more than the smell of the blood drying did. She was a rabid dog, the world was trying to pull her canines out. She sometimes forced herself to look her father directly in the eye, but nothing about that moment had been fabricated. _Don’t come near me_, she knew her face was screaming it. _Don’t come near me or I’ll tear your fucking skin off._

“Yanno, Bevvie love, if you had been hungry back at the din-ah, you shoulda just said something!”

She flinched at the sound of Richie’s voice, eyes flicking over to him questioningly. 

“Your-a finger, lucce dei miei occi! You are-a biting and-a biting!”

Bev snorted, pulling her nail from her mouth and flipping him off with little heat. 

“Two accents in under twenty seconds.” Bev nodded, looking over in mock amusement at Bill, who was walking down the road on her other side. “Glad you’re embracing quantity over quality.”

“I’ll have you know they’re Voices, not—” Richie shuddered, bringing up his fingers for the quotation marks—“‘accents.’ It’s about the trademark of it all, Bevvie, I have to have my thing.”

“I c-couldn’t even t-tell what the first one was.”

“Don’t you know, Big Bill?” Bev cut in before Richie could protest. “That’s part-a the trademark!”

“Next time, I’m letting you chew your whole damn arm off, Beverly Marsh.” Richie huffed, faking annoyance. “Let you explore your newfound taste for human flesh and blood all on your own.”

At this, Bev sobered somewhat. She cleared her throat, pulling her sunglasses off the crown of her head and down onto her eyes. Neither boy noticed the shift in her attitude. She stuffed her hands into her pockets, thumbing the bitten cuticles almost unconsciously. Almost.

They all walked in a comfortable silence for a while, briefly interrupted by Richie making some noise or saying a random phrase without really expecting a response. He was always trying to fill silence, Bev could tell. She wondered whether it was compulsive or if he was afraid. Or both? Richie was difficult, in many different senses of the word, but she thought perhaps he was most difficult to understand, truly understand. _Maybe_, she wondered, a pearl of guilt settling in the pit of her stomach, _maybe that’s not so true. Maybe we just don’t really try very much at all._

“Guys!” This time it was Ben pulling her from her musings, waving enthusiastically at them from the street corner. She looked a little frantic, hair frizzled from the humidity and face-splitting grin bordering on manic, and the image of her helped Bev relax considerably. They walked over to her at the tedium they’d consistently kept up the past fifteen minutes, which was comical in contrast to the excitement currently crackling around Benny Hanscom’s being. “I can’t believe we’re going to the Kaspbrak house. I’ve been hearing… thingsabout that place since I first moved here at the beginning of the year.”

“I heard it’s haunted.” 

“I th-thought it was c-c-cursed?” 

“Same difference.” Richie shrugged, leaning forward to shove Ben’s shoulder amicably. 

“_Not_ same difference, Rich, but you’re close. It sure seems haunted and cursed from the outside, and the Kaspbraks are both kinda hermits.”

“Kaspbrak.” Bev repeated, frowning. Ben shot her a little wave as she did so. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“I-It’s the boy from the d-d-diner.” Bill said, with a groan of realization. “His l-l-last name’s K-K-Kuh-K—_that._”

“Oh, you mean the kid that Richie completely ruined your chances with?” Bev teased, and Bill ducked his head, the tips of his ears flushed. 

“I remain of the mind that I make a great wingman and that the mean twink being a nightmare was the definitive downward slope of that conversation.”

“I can’t b-believe that the suh-s-psychic you happen to b-book a session w-with just _h-h-happens_ to be—”

“You’re right, Bill, I should’ve chosen another psychic in Derry, my apologies—”

“Or, y-you could’ve b-butted out of my b-b-business—”

“Disgusting! My butt was nowhere near your business!”

Ben quirked an eyebrow at Bev.

“Yeah. They’ve been like this the whole day.” She confirmed, and Ben smiled fondly, leaning forward to take her notebook back from where Bill had been holding it in his arms. 

“Ready to go?” She asked, and practically everyone made a noise of approval. Except—

“Wait.” Richie said, suddenly subdued. “Wait.”

“W-What now?”

“I’ve barely opened my mouth this time, how are you _already_ pissed at me?”

“C’mon, beep beep, Rich, we’re gonna be late.” Bev said, and he turned to look at her, mouth pressed into a thin line. Oh. This was serious, then. The pearl of guilt turned once.

“I didn’t even—how—” He paused, shaking his head to himself once. “Whatever. Moving on. I wanted to wait until we were all together, but I don’t think we’ll be seeing Stan the Man for the rest of the day, so. Well. Last night, I—you guys know how my house is almost directly on the ley line?”

Bill perked up.

“I read about this thing, about St. Mark’s Eve?” He said, looking over to Ben for support. “You know about that, right?”

“Uh, St. Mark, he was an evangelist, I think? And the legend goes that if you’re in the right place at the right time you see the ghosts of those doomed to die in the coming year. Or something like that.” She added quickly, nervously. Bev gave her an encouraging smile. Ben blushed harder.

“Exactly. Yeah. You’re technically supposed to be on a church porch, but I figured ‘hey, my house is on the ley line, next best thing.’ So I sat outside in the bushes for four hours. With a tape recorder.”

“F-Four hours?”

“A _tape recorder_?” Bev scoffed. “I don’t believe you. What fucking year is it?”

Richie reached into his bag and produced the item in question, looking almost sheepish as he did so. Bev and Bill spared a wary glance at each other.

“Well?” Ben urged. “Did you find something?”

“N-No way y-you—”

“I did.” Richie said, softly. From the corner of her eye, Bev saw Bill clamp his mouth shut, eyebrows raised in wonder. She’d never heard Richie sound so awed, not without there being a punchline. Her thoughts from earlier flood back to her again—maybe they just weren’t listening right. “It’s not much? It’s kind of nothing. But it’s also something. It’s—here, let me just.”

He clicked play, and Bev held her breath. There was a staticky silence for about twenty seconds, and she could feel the group start to suspect Richie of pulling one over on them—_Trashmouth Tozier Gets Off A Good One!_—before a voice broke through.

_“Is that all?” _It was a boy for sure, although she had to strain her ears to properly hear the words. She looked over at Richie, whose eyes were closed. He looked vaguely grim. Bill opened his mouth to say something but Richie held a palm up, shaking his head. _Wait_, he mouthed. 

They did.

_“That’s all there is.” _

Bev inhaled sharply. It was unmistakably Richie’s voice this time, still sounding just as far away as the other, but so despairingly familiar that she could hear the wavering confusion infused into the words. Richie clicked the tape recorder off. He looked pained.

“It was j-just people t-t-talking, R-Richie.” Bill said quietly, placatingly. There was nothing damning about what they’d just heard, not really, not all by its lonesome, but there was something fizzling in the air, waiting for them to reach their most vulnerable, a _potential_. Bev felt blood trickling down her forehead and her hand flew up. Sweat. That’s all it was. _That’s all there is._

“It was me. And somebody else. Two sentence conversation, you’re right, there—there isn’t anything strange about that. Right as rain. Except.” Richie’s laugh was more hysterics than anything else. “Except I was completely fucking alone the entire night.”

“Richie, this isn’t funny.” Ben said, clutching the notebook to her chest.

“Whaddaya mean, Haystack, I think it’s a fucking _riot_.”

“Alone?” Bill asked, locking eyes with Richie. He nodded.

“It was so quiet. Cicadas weren’t even out, not really.”

“How did you know it was there?” Bev demanded. 

“Listened to it this morning. Nothing, nothing, nothing, then boom. Ka-Chow. Bada-bing, bada—”

“_Richie_.”

“What the _fuck_ am I doing on there, guys?” His voice shook, and Bev believed him. She had believed him the entire time. Bill gently took the recorder from Richie’s hands, putting it in his own backpack and staring resolutely back at them. 

“We’ll f-figure it out. Later. Right n-now, we h-have a suh-s-psychic to see.”

“Big Bill.” Richie began, stopping just as quick. Like he couldn’t quite think of anything else to say. Like he’d found a silence he couldn’t break. Or a break he couldn’t laugh off. 

And that scared Bev more than anything else.

—

Eddie got home slightly winded, a side effect of having lightly jogged most of the way back. His mother fixed a wary look on him as he dug out his inhaler.

“Eddie-bear.” She said, reproachingly. 

“I didn’t wanna interrupt your reading, mama.” He answered, making an attempt to slip past her. She grabbed him by the arm, not roughly, she was never _rough _with him, he was _much_ _too delicate, Eddie, I would never hurt you like that_, but he flinched all the same. She didn’t seem to notice, too concerned with lifting her hand to his forehead to check his temperature. 

“You feel a little warm, honey, you know that? I knew you should’ve stayed home resting today.”

“I feel fine, really—”

She didn’t seem to hear him, whirling around to face the cupboard and pulling out a small orange bottle, shaking out a pill and then—after a glance at her son and a moment of deliberation—shaking out another one. Eddie clenched his jaw. 

“I feel _fine_, mama. I’m not sick.”

“Sickness is a slippery thing, Eddie.” Her eyes were wide with sympathy, like he was made of paper and would blow away at any sign of wind. Like he was weak. He knew she thought he was weak. Everybody fucking thought he was weak. He looked down at the inhaler in his hand. The knot tightened. 

“I’m not sick and I’m not slipping.” He said, as steely as he could muster. “It was humid outside and I walked the whole way, _that_’_s _why my forehead’s a bit warmer than usual, I don’t need—”

She cut him off by forcefully shoving the pills into his mouth. He spluttered, having only a second to breathe before she put a cup of water to his lips, and he obliged, closing his eyes and swallowing accordingly. She stroked his cheek gently, and Eddie felt his glass courage topple over the top of a table and shatter. 

“I know you want to be all grown up already, sweetie.” She cooed. “But you’re so _young _still, Eddie, you have no idea how to take care of yourself yet. I’m your mother, do you really think I’d hurt you?”

“No.” Eddie answered, automatically. And it was true. He didn’t. His mom was a little odd from time to time, a bit more controlling than maybe was desirable, but there were so many kids out there with parents who neglected them, who physically abused them—Eddie’s mom loved him. Eddie loved his mom. 

“Good. That’s my sweet boy. It would really hurt me if you thought me capable of something like that. We have such a good relationship, Eddie, I would hate for it to strain. Now, go up to your room and get some rest, baby.” She said, pulling him into a hug. Eddie wrapped his arms around her tightly, shutting his eyes again and breathing in the familiarity of her. 

“Actually,” he said, pulling back and looking up at her tentatively. “I know you don’t like it when I sit in on readings. But maybe I could do it just this once?”

“Eddie, in your condition—”

“I just think it could help us bond. I would hate for our relationship to strain, too.” He said, and Sonia’s expression shifted. The words felt like cotton on his mouth. He felt manipulative. _Dirty. _

“If you start to overextend yourself, I’m sending you upstairs.” She promised, eyes narrowing as she pressed a palm to his cheek. “You really do feel a little too warm…”

“Thank you, mama.” He said, quickly, before she could change her mind. Sonia opened her mouth, seemed ready to lay a new condition on top of him, but there was a sharp succession of knocks on the door before she could get to it. The two looked at each other, and Sonia seemed to concede—a rarity Eddie worried might never come again—before striding up to the door. 

All at once, Eddie remembered what he was here for, _who _he was here for, and he felt the almost robotic calm he’d gathered

_(please who are you richie is that all that’s all there is)_

drop out from under him. 

“You’re late.” He heard his mother say from the other hallway. Eddie sat down at the table, anxiously drumming his fingers on the surface of it. 

“Shouldn’t you have known we’d be?” 

Eddie froze. He knew that voice. 

“Richie—” A girl, this time.

“Beep beep, I know, blah blah.” 

He turned around, incredulous, just as the clients entered the dim living room, and—

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Eddie spit out, and he could feel his eyes bulging in what, retrospectively, must’ve been deeply comical. 

“Eddie-bear! _Language!” _His mom chastised, and that boy, the obnoxious owl-looking muppet hybrid motherfucker from the diner, _that boy_, started laughing, he started fucking _laughing_, and, oh, okay, Eddie understood now, Eddie knew how Richie was going to die, Eddie was going to _strangle _him. 

“Oh, this is the best day of my life. Big Bill, how are we feeling?” The boy—_Richie_, Eddie thought scathingly, _this was Richie_—turned to his friend, turned to Bill Denbrough, who was running a finger through his face and shaking his head, exasperated.

“Richie, God, shut the fuck up.” That was the girl that had been with them back at the diner, the tall, almost coltish one with the unevenly cut red hair. The confirmation that this was, in fact, Richie, felt like a condemnation of sorts, the final nail in the proverbial coffin. 

Well, maybe that was a little insensitive. 

“Excuse me, when was this house built?” Another girl, one he hadn’t seen before and the shortest of the group (but still taller than him, it seemed), holding open a spiral notebook, seemingly unaware of what was going on around her. 

“Probably bought it herself back in the 1600s.” Richie muttered, and Eddie’s temper flared—an impressive feat, considering it had not tampered down at any point. 

“Did you just call my mom _old?”_

“Would it be more or less offensive to you if I was actually going for the whole gothic vampiric angle?”

“_I need everybody to sit down_.” Sonia Kaspbrak boomed. It felt unfitting that a clap of lightning didn’t follow, Eddie thought. 

The quartet, in varying levels of distress, annoyance, and misplaced glee, took their seats at the long table. Sonia settled down at the head of it, regarding the group warily. 

“It is _too _loud in here.” She said after a pause, gritting her teeth. 

“Okay, I didn’t even _say _anything that time.” Richie whispered harshly. Next to him, the girl with the notebook rolled her eyes. 

“That’s not what she means, dumbass.” Eddie muttered. He locked eyes with Bill, who cracked a small smile at him. Eddie, against his better judgement, returned it. 

“What _does _she mean, then?” Notebook girl again, pen poised over a blank page. 

“Energies.” Sonia answered, witheringly. “All of you already have very loud auras. But something here is making you louder. Give me your names.” 

“Bev.” 

“First and last.” Sonia amended. 

“Beverly Marsh.”

“Ben Hanscom.”

“B-Bill. Denbrough.”

“Tozier. Richie Tozier.” He said it with a wink. Eddie had half a mind to get it over with and knock the self satisfied smirk off his stupid fucking face, but his mom beat him to it. 

“You.” She said, coolly. “It’s you.”

Eddie felt a chill run down his spine. _She said she hadn’t seen him._

“What?”

“You’re making things louder. Amplifying your energy and everybody else’s in the room. It’s suffocating.”

“Y-You get used t-to it.” Bill joked lightheartedly. Richie, for the first time since Eddie had had the displeasure of meeting him, did not seem amused. 

“What does that mean?” Richie demanded. He looked at Ben, then Eddie, and back at Sonia. “What does she _mean_?”

“You’re like a magnifying glass. If the energy in this room was already whining to begin with, you’re making it scream.” Sonia explained, looking at Richie with sharp and narrowed eyes. 

“Isn’t that good? Doesn’t that help you?”

“Sometimes, sometimes not.” She replied, loftily. “Magnifying glasses, when in line with the sun, have a tendency to burn things. To destroy.”

Richie didn’t say anything, but Eddie saw something in his face change. Well. Whatever. That was on him for being fucking annoying. Made sense that extended to something supernatural. 

“I’ll have to do one-off readings if all of you are intent on staying.”

“W-We are.” Bill nodded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table at the same time that Richie slumped back. 

“What’s a one-off?” Bev asked. She seemed suspicious of the situation in general. 

“You each draw one card from the tarot deck. I interpret.”

“W-We’ll take it.” Bill said eagerly. Richie and Bev exchanged a look that Eddie couldn’t quite decipher. Ben was wrapped up in taking notes, her thin hair touching the edges of the paper.

“You. Amplifier. Shuffle the deck.” Sonia said, after a pause. Richie frowned, but obliged, taking the cards. 

“Why?”

“It’ll help focus the energy into the reading. Make it more accurate, and whatnot.”

“See, Rich? Looks like you can focus, after all.” Bev snarked, grinning crookedly. Richie said nothing, shuffling the deck with a care that Eddie hadn’t expected from him. He felt almost transported back to the graveyard, the image of his ghost convulsing on the ground overwhelming in its momentary reality. He looked away. 

Richie finished, passing the deck back to Sonia, who in turn offered it to Bev. It wasn’t a question. 

Bev, hesitant, gingerly took one from the bottom and, in the process, managed to make another spill out behind it. Sonia huffed but did little else, looking from the two cards to Bev with an increasingly curious expression.

“Sorry.” Bev said, lamely.

“Turn them and show me.”

She obliged, flipping the two cards around so that only Sonia could see them. 

“Four of Swords reversed and The Hanged Man.”

“What does it mean?”

“When a Four of Swords shows up in any context, it means you’re going through a strenuous time mentally. When it’s reversed it can mean an overload of that is impending if you don’t start taking care of yourself. Means you’ve got some soul-searching to do. Whether it’s school, or friends, or—” Sonia paused, mouth curling into a sneer. “Is everything alright at home?”

Bev bristled.

“Hm, guess not. Perhaps you should talk to someone about it. Because you haven’t, have you? Alluded, sure, but nobody knows the extent. People worry. They worry a _lot_.” Her eyes were glinting with something Eddie couldn’t quite put his finger on. He wished he’d never sat down here in the first place. Bev’s eyes were wide. And angry.

“Fuck you.” She spit out. “How did you know that he—_fuck_ you.”

“Language.” Sonia said, snapping back to her usual self. Eddie’s shoulders relaxed. “Four of Swords reversed is usually the precursor to internal enlightenment. An awakening. You just have to get through some… _stuff_ first.”

“What stuff.” Bev demanded, voice hard. It didn’t sound quite like a question. Her teeth were gritted.

“The readings are hardly ever that accurate.” Sonia replied, flippantly tucking the card back into the deck before turning her attention to the remaining one. “And, ah, The Hanged Man. Discontentment, confinement. Impulsivity. Do you feel you’re trapped, Beverly Marsh? What are you willing to do to stop that feeling from swallowing you whole? This card tells me that the answer to that is ‘quite a lot.’ This card points to a sacrifice you’ll make. Careful, Beverly. If you take a step back just so you can take another one forward you end up in the exact same place.”

With that, she tucked The Hanged Man card back into the deck and looked over to Ben, who was looking at Bev with eyes that suddenly seemed very young and very sad. Like Bev being hurt made her hurt. 

“You. Quick, come on. You’re next.”

Ben seemed to steel herself, breathing in and presenting her card.

“The Moon. Reversed.” Sonia said, slowly. “Confusion, misinterpretation. Fear. You’re a curious child. Don’t let that inhibit you. When dreams come out of the woodwork, it’s hard for you to separate reality from illusion. Something seems wrong, doesn’t it? But you don’t want it to be wrong. Too much at stake for that. What’s something you’re not considering here?” She paused, raised an eyebrow. “Don’t keep your wondering to yourself. You aren’t the only one doubting.”

Ben said nothing, expression slack and blank. She placed the card back on the desk and looked at her notebook, picking up the pen before setting it down again, eyes lifting to look at Sonia as she inched the deck towards Bill this time. 

“A-Any card?”

“Don’t stall.” 

Bill slid one out from the top, ran his index finger along its spine, before flipping it over onto the table.

“King of Wands, reversed. Set many bad examples, do you? You’re very angry, but it’s different than your friend over there’s anger,” her eyes flicked to Bev and back, “because she’s angry at the world. You’re angry at yourself. You did something bad, or think you did, at least, and now you’re trying to make up for it—and it isn’t working. And the more it doesn’t work, the more that pedestal you’re on cracks. It’s a long way down. I’d warn you against it, but I think you need it. I think you need that fall to be free. They all think you’re a leader, but they’ll see soon enough.”

“That’s it.” Richie cut in. “This is like a fucking Rorschach test, you’re just being a bitch for no reason.”

“Whatever it is you’re chasing, Bill Denbrough. Stop. You can’t beat the devil.”

“I-I don’t nuh-know what you’re t-t-talking about.”

“Has your stutter always been that bad?”

“Richie’s right.” Bev said, cooly. Bill was quiet, looked pale and small against the low fluorescent light and dark wood. It reminded Eddie of the graveyard. “That’s _enough_.”

“You can’t protect all of them, Billy.” 

The temperature of the room seemed to drop, and Eddie felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His mother’s voice had taken on a thicker quality, sounding odd and almost mechanically whimsical, tone rising up and falling down with nightmarish variation.

“You weren’t there for either of them, and you won’t be there for the rest.

“Mom.” Eddie said, hearing and hating the meek quality of his own voice. _Weak, weak, weak._

“But_ I_ will, _I’ll_ be there, and they’ll foat. They’ll, you’ll, we’ll _all_ float.”

“Float.” Ben repeated, soft, to herself.

“What the _fuck_ is going on.” Richie demanded. Bill and Sonia were staring at each other, unblinking. “Dude, make her _stop_.”

It took Eddie a fraction of a second to figure out Richie was talking to him, and then another fraction of a second for his instincts to kick back in. He placed the card back on the deck and roughly grabbed his mother by the chin. There was something manic in her eyes, howling and unrecognizable. Then, she was his mother again, hand resting atop his. 

“Mama?” He whispered, fearful. 

“My. I’m not sure what came over me.” She said, sounding a million miles away. She peeled Eddie off of her and turned to the rest of them, zeroing in on Richie, accusatorily. “As I said, it’s—it’s much too loud in here. All of you need to leave right now.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Richie muttered, making a move to stand. Eddie clenched his knuckles.

“Wait.” He said, although he had no recollection of making the decision to speak. Five pairs of eyes settled on him, more than half glaring pointedly. “You didn’t get your card.”

“Eddie—” Sonia started, but Eddie was quicker. Today, Eddie was quicker.

“It could be important. You’ve always said group readings are like a puzzle piece, everybody playing off each other. Especially one-offs.”

Sonia looked and looked at him, her expression virtually unreadable.

“Fine.” She said, tightly. She pushed the deck towards Richie, disconnecting herself from the cards entirely. They all tensely watched as Richie picked a card and slammed it down onto the table, looking up at Sonia defiantly. 

Eddie’s heart stopped.

“Choose a different card.” Sonia said, immediately. Richie frowned.

“What’s wrong with this one?” 

“_Choose a different card_.” She snarled, snatching it from his hands and shuffling it back into the deck. Richie, surprisingly, did as he was told, reaching for a new card and turning it over onto the table. 

It was the exact same one as before. Judgement. The card Eddie got, without fail, every single time his mother read him. _There’s only one reason a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve_—

Sonia was quiet.

“What does it mean?” Richie asked, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Eddie. Eddie was looking right back at him. 

“Choose again.” Sonia said, before Eddie could answer. Richie shifted back to her, incredulous.

“I just did!”

“That card isn’t for you, you little—” Sonia stopped, shaking her head, a sharp fury lining her shoulders. “It’s not yours. It’s Eddie’s card, his energy must’ve gotten mixed into your reading because you’re making everything _scream_.”

“The deck sure seems to think the card’s for me.” Richie pushed, but Sonia wasn’t listening, grabbing the card from him once more and shuffling and re-shuffling the deck with a fervor that made Eddie cringe. The ends of the cards kept bending from her lack of care.

“What _are_ you? What is _wrong_ with you?” Sonia demanded, and Richie recoiled. She sounded almost disgusted.

“Mom—”

“_Quiet_, Eddie.” She slammed the deck down onto the table, standing now, leaning over to where Richie was, watching him very carefully as he grabbed a card for the third time. It all felt very final, the way he flipped it over while looking at Sonia obstinately. Then, his eyes dropped to the card and he paled.

A black knight riding atop a white horse. The knight’s helmet was lifted, revealing a skull instead of a face, topped with eyeless sockets.

Death.

Eddie felt like he was going to pass out.

“Oh, wonderful.” Bev snapped. She was chewing on her nails. “Care to interpret that for us, Mrs. K?”

“I read somewhere the Death card is mostly metaphorical. Psychics aren’t allowed to predict death.” Ben said, although she didn’t sound too convinced. Bill remained silent, regarding the card warily. 

“Well?” Richie pressed. His eyes, face, body language—all wild. Commanding, loud, alive. Eddie couldn’t stop himself from remembering once again the shapeless suggestion of a boy he’d seen writhing around on the floor. Lost. Dying. It was like night and day. _What happens to you, Richie? When do you become that person?_

“It’s irresponsible of psychics to predict death directly to a client, that’s true.” Sonia conceded. She wore a perverse grin. “That doesn’t mean we don’t _know_.”

“We’re l-leaving.” Bill said, suddenly, breaking free of whatever trance he’d been stuck in for the past ten minutes. “Th-Thanks for this, I guess. H-Here’s what we o-owe you.”

“Wait.” Ben said, suddenly remembering herself, flipping through her notebook. “There was another reason we came here. We’re quite alright with figuring our futures out ourselves, actually, but we do have a question for you.”

“A question.” Sonia echoed. 

“Yes. About energy work? I’ve been reading a lot about it, I know psychics tend to deal with it to a certain extent. We’ve been trying to figure out the parameters of a ley line we know is in Derry—it starts near that old church, runs left through Richie’s house, actually, but we aren’t sure where it goes from there. Do you know anything about that?”

The corpse road. They were talking about the corpse road. The same corpse road where, not twenty-four hours ago, Eddie had seen Richie’s ghost. It him all over again. _Eddie had seen Richie’s ghost_. He felt like he was going to be fucking sick. He doubted any of his pills could do anything for him now, it was all _useless, useless, useless_.

“Ley line. No, don’t think I know anything about that here in Derry. What is it?”

His mother was a good liar. Eddie wasn’t sure what to do with that information.

“They’re s-straight energy l-l-lines that crisscross the g-gl-globe. They’re suh-suh-supposed to c-connect major sp-spuh-spiritual places.” Bill explained, eyes glinting with something that seemed to be pleading. Sonia pressed her lips together.

“I’d have to think about it. I’m not good with specifics. Leave your number, if you want, and I’ll get right back to you.”

From the corner of his eye, Eddie watched as Richie’s eyebrows furrowed together, watched as a small, sardonic grin bloomed on his lips. He could tell Sonia was lying, Eddie realized.

“Actually, I think we’re good.” He said, and it sounded almost impish. “This was fun, but I think we’re done here now. Bill?”

“Y-Yeah. Let’s g-go.” Bill nodded, and Eddie didn’t miss the disappointed tilt to his expression. He felt guilt stir up in him, felt almost inclined to grab Bill by the hand and tell him all about the corpse road, and St. Mark’s, and the _leper_ and—

He grit his teeth and focused on a chip at the edge of the table. He didn’t look back up until all of them had gone, awkwardly hunched over as a small scuffle began over how to pay that he hadn’t bothered paying attention to. Then, silence. He thought maybe he understood what his mom had meant about their auras. The room seemed to be less _whole_, now that they’d come and gone. Eddie lifted his head, jumping slightly when he found Sonia before him, wearing intensity like a second skin.

“You are not to see any of them again, Eddie.”

“I don’t particularly want to.”

“Good. Because I forbid you from it.”

“You can’t _forbid _me, mom. I go to school with them.”

“Don’t talk to them.”

“What if they talk to me?”

“Walk away.”

“They didn’t do anything wrong.”

“_Everything_ about them is wrong.”

Eddie, feeling the heat of being trapped building up in his chest, was about to protest when he caught sight of the notebook, laying closed at the edge of the table. Oh.

“She left it.”

“Burn it.”

“I am _not _going to—Jesus Christ.” He muttered, standing up to grab it. “They’re right outside. I’m going to return this to them.”

He didn’t wait for the answer that never came, spinning on his heels and walking out of the living room. He would pay for that later, but right now all it did was loosen that _something _inside of him, that awful knot. He tucked the notebook into his jacket, out of sight, then stepped into the driveway. 

“Bill!” He called, waving an arm. All four of them stopped, turned around to look, but only Bill walked towards him, eyebrows raised curiously. He seemed so elegant, the sun casting shadows on his face. Eddie thought he could look at him forever. _Why couldn’t you have been him?_

He felt selfish for thinking that. Richie was going to _die. _

“Y-Yeah?”

“I do know some stuff about the corpse road—ley line. And I’m nothing like my mom.” He wasn’t sure why he added that last bit. He—he just wanted Bill to know. 

“C-Can I have y-your number?” Bill asked, offering his phone, before ducking his head and blushing. “F-For business p-puh-purposes.”

“Business purposes.” Eddie said, dryly, but he smiled as he inputted the info regardless. “I see why you let your friend do the talking.”

“G-God, I am _so _s-sorry about that.” Bill groaned. “R-Richie’s really n-not so bad once you g-get to know him.”

The last thing Eddie wanted to do was get to know a boy that would be dead in less than a year, but he nodded accordingly anyway. 

“I’ll s-s-see you, then?” He sounded hopeful. Eddie felt the weight of the notebook in his jacket. 

“Definitely.”

“Move it, Big Bill!” Richie yelled, behind them. Bill made it a point to flip him off. 

“L-Like I said. N-Not that bad!”

With that, he smiled widely at Eddie, holding his phone up like a promise as he walked back to his friends. Eddie leaned back against the door, unable to shake the feeling that everything was coming undone. Like a great big ball of yarn, unspooling. He wasn’t psychic, would never be psychic, but he _felt _it then. 

Something was starting. 

—

When Ben got home, she was surprised to find Stanley Uris sitting on her doorstep, arms folded over his knees, still as a statue. She was more surprised by the fact that he had seemed to materialize out of nowhere, as she couldn’t recall seeing anybody right up until the moment her eyes met Stan’s, both of them jumping from the shock. Like something out of a horror novel.

It was dark, though. Obviously, she just hadn’t seen him.

“How long have you been out here?” She asked, concern flooding her tone. “Why didn’t you knock? My mom would’ve let you in!”

“S’fine. Not a long wait.” Stan said, softly. He seemed a bit shaken. She reached out to hold his hand, but pulled back the second she felt his skin.

“Stanley, you’re _freezing_.” She stressed, shrugging off her coat and wrapping it around his shoulders. 

“Am I?” He said, frowning, but hugging the coat closer nonetheless. “I don’t really feel it.”

“When did you get back from Mike’s?” 

“Around 5, I think.”

“What?” Ben shoved his shoulder. Even through the fabric he felt like ice. “Stan. It’s half past eight.”

He blinked.

“Is it? I guess I must’ve lost track of time.” He shrugged, rolling his eyes. It made him look more like his usual self. Ben exhaled. “How’d the reading go?”

“Absolute trainwreck.” She said, grinning. “What did you expect?”

“_I_ didn’t expect anything. Bet Bill’s not too pleased about it, though.” He huffed.

“Give him a break, Stan. He just wants there to be a meaning.”

“There isn’t one. Sometimes awful, senseless things happen and there just isn’t a divine reason for it. Or a way to fix it. It’s like—he’s never been denied anything, not by any of us, so now he wants a fairytale solution because things, for once, aren’t going his way.” Stan said, nastily, and Ben jerked back. 

“That’s not fair at _all_, Stan. His brother was _murdered_.”

“My _parents_ were murdered.” He howled, something horrifying and tragic in the lines of his face. “You don’t see me trying to get all our friends involved in fucking pagan rituals! Things don’t last. People die. And they don’t come back, Ben! They never, ever come back, no, they stay dead, and you know what? I don’t think I’d want to see somebody dead suddenly get up and start walking around like the rest of us. I don’t think I’d want to see that at all.”

“Hey, I know, I know, I do—and I’m so sorry. But Bill, he _saw_ something that day.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t see a thing. I was fucking unconscious, and Richie and Georgie were both missing, and where was Bill? Hallucinating. Off by himself, like he didn’t even give a shit about the rest of us. It’s funny, Bill is. The day before, when you and him found me at the house, he held on so tight to me, Ben, he held on so _damn _tight. Like he never wanted to let go. But he _did_, he _did_ let me go, he let me go and he left me alone, all by myself, and I think something happened to me there, Ben, I think something in me broke that day, and I don’t even know what it is.” 

“Stan—”

“I didn’t even know it was eight-thirty. I thought it was six, at most. Time’s been passing like that, lately. Time’s been leaving me behind, Ben.”

He was definitely shaking now, his breathing ragged and unnatural, like there was too much air and not enough of him to take it in. Ben tentatively sat down next to him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Stanley. Breathe. What brought all this on?” She asked, gently. Stan was quiet for a moment, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a watch, made from a gold that seemed to glow even in the dark. “Is that from Mike’s?”

“Yes.” He said, fingers clenched as he slowly turned it around, revealing what looked like an inscription. Ben leaned in, straining her eyes against the lack of light. 

“Five twenty-nine.” She read, looking up at Stan, expression blank.

“May twenty-ninth.” 

Ben frowned for a second, before her jaw slackened, the realization turning her body even colder .

“Is that—?”

“Yeah. Wanna tell me where the hell Mike got this from? And what you need it for?”

Ben hesitated. Stanley, of all people, would never believe her, not without proof, and that wasn’t hers to give. She wasn’t sure she wanted to give it in the first place. There was still so little she understood about the whole thing, so little Mike had shared with her—and she was fine with that, she was, it was a wound that had not fully healed for him just yet, but Ben was so _curious_—and she wasn’t inclined to betray the trust it seemed she’d finally managed to earn.

“My mom buys stuff from the Hanlons sometimes. Mike’s dad used to make things, and he’d hoard even more, so when him and Mike’s mom died, his grandfather started selling some of it, just for extra profit on the side. I always really liked the things she’d get, so I asked Mike if he had anything I could have, something that was my own.” She said, working to keep her voice steady. She’d never been a skilled liar, had never quite built up a good poker face even after the years of bullying she’d endured at her old school. She’d always seemed to feel things too deeply, and when she’d first started HRT it had made her emotions a little bigger on top of that; Ben was an open book. Always had been, always would be, always _wanted _to be. _It’s not really a lie. Just not the full truth._

“So it’s just a coincidence?” Stan’s voice was even, and she could feel his eyes focused on her, razor-sharp. He doubted her, she knew he did, but there was a plea there too. For what, though, Ben wasn’t sure. “Of all the dates, it just happened to be this one?”

“It’s an old watch. There’s no way they could’ve known.” _That_ was true. If anything, Half-true. 

“Okay.” Stan said. He sounded like he was going to cry. “Okay.”

“I’m so sorry you had to remember all of that, Stan.” She whispered, tightening her grip on him. “You know we’re here for you, right? We all love you so much.”

“I know.” He said, small. 

“You aren’t alone.”

“I feel alone.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry. You’re only trying to help, I shouldn’t—I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Things are fucked.”

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you curse.”

“Shut up! That is not the first time I’ve cursed.”

“I love you, Benny.”

“I love you too. Try to cut Bill some slack, okay?”

“I think I hate him.”

“I don’t think you hate him at all, Stan.”

“Yeah. I think I should go. Richie’s gonna be waiting for me.”

“Alright. Check your temperature when you get there, okay? You really feel so cold.”

  
  
It was a nice watch, clunky and worn, and Ben was kind of in love with it. It looked old, but it felt… not new, exactly, but strange. Different. Like it could hide in plain sight, sure, but if you knew it was special then you could tell. And benevolent, too. Which was a weird way to describe an inanimate object, but something about it seemed coated in kindness, in _goodness_. That wasn’t something she noticed in all her mom’s other pieces, those were more static—as static as something like that could be of course—but this had intention. 

Or, maybe she was just too romantic about things like this. It was hard not to be, though. William Hanlon had pulled this watch out of a _dream_. 

She reached for her bag, ripping it open and snaking a hand inside. She needed to take inventory, as well as jot down all the stuff she’d been too thrown to write about at the Kaspbrak house. She could still hear the way that woman’s voice would just _change_, and it gave her the creeps. After a minute or so of ransacking her stuff, she realized, panicked, that she must’ve left the notebook _at_ the house, which was a rather unfortunate turn of events; she’d have to stop by there tomorrow, after they got back from whatever it was Bill wanted them to do. Something about finding the rest of the ley line. Again. 

And, well, that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ben _was_ too romantic, but the novelty of all of this always managed to make her feel like the rug was about to be pulled under her feet. _Don’t keep your wondering to yourself_, Sonia Kaspbrak had said, much more serious and sober than she’d been comfortable with. _You’re not the only one doubting._

She wanted to help Bill. She wanted to help all her friends, wanted to explore, to learn about all this, to find some semblance of evidence that, _yes, child, magic is real_, but she couldn’t help but feel like they were meddling in something much larger than any of them realized. She also couldn’t help but feel that, maybe, they were supposed to be.

She glanced down at the watch again, before collapsing back into bed and pulling out her phone, clicking her last missed call. Answers so rarely came in neat little packages. Answers were like stampedes. She was scared of getting them all trampled.

“Hello?”

“Mike, hey! Thank you so much for the watch, it’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d like it.” He said, and she could hear the smile on his face. That was the thing about Mike. He was coated in kindness and goodness too. 

“Stan wasn’t too fussy?”

“No, not at all. He, uh, taught me about yellow-throated sparrows.”

“Sounds like Stan. Did he seem a little weird to you? I know you don’t know him, but—I don’t know, I just saw him and he was… a bit off.”

“Oh? Is everything alright? He seemed fine when he was with me.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. He’s going through a lot.” Ben focused on the watch again, finger slipping under it to feel for the engraving. There’s no such thing as coincidence. “Hey, so, is it one of your dad’s pieces? The watch?”

“What? Oh! Yes. Yeah.”

“What does the inscription mean. The May 29th on the back?”

“Inscription?” A beat. Ben chewed on her bottom lip. “_Inscription_. Right. I don’t really know, actually. Dad said that he couldn’t always control the way his pieces turned out. Sometimes, things intervened.”

“Things?”

“Yeah, like a power, I guess. He’d be dreaming, and something else would join. Whenever he had nightmares it was usually ‘cause something was messing with the dream.”

“Like It.” Ben said, softly.

“Huh?”

“Have you ever heard of that old legend, about how if you wake this primordial being, it’ll grant you a favor?” She asked, thinking, at the same time, that she shouldn’t be saying any of this to somebody without Bill’s permission. Mike was quiet on the other end of the line. Ben really hoped she hadn’t just scared off the grandson of one of her mother’s most prominent connections. It would make all those weekly business meetings really awkward.

But—asking Mike, it had just felt right. Like what she was supposed to do.

“Yes.” He said, finally. “I have. My family, I think they’ve been tracking It for decades. My dad never really talked about it, said he’d explain once I was old enough. And, well. You know. That’s out the window.”

“So you have information recorded on it?”

“Sort of. I don’t know where it is, but I know it exists. Ben, what’s this about?”

Ben sat up straight, a half-baked plan formulating.

“Mike, theoretically speaking here, how free are you to traverse the Derry woods with some strangers tomorrow?”

**—**

Bill had sent flowers to the Kaspbrak house last night. 

It had been a spur of the moment decision. He’d seen the white carnations swaying lazily in his mother’s garden and made the executive decision to chop them loose, gathering enough to put a decent bouquet together, topping it off with a clear elastic and a blue ribbon. He’d taken a note and scribbled an abashed _I hope you still want me to call :) - Bill _on it, tucking it into the flowers resolutely, before gathering whatever change he could find and asking their mailman if he could spot him a favor and get these to the old house near Neibolt street.

“Shit, really? That house is creepy as fuck.”

“Make sure th-that you don’t g-give it to th-the older l-l-lady. Ask fuh-for the s-son.”

“Right. For tomorrow?”

Bill had hummed in agreement, handing the mailman the money confidently. 

Now, sun beating down his brow and Eddie’s contact information staring up at him, he hoped the flowers hadn’t been too much. Well—the _flowers_ definitely weren’t, the _flowers_ were kind of pathetic, but the gesture. The principle of the thing. He didn’t want to scare the kid away, or anything, but he hoped the note had served as a cheeky refresher of who Bill and his group were, considering he _was _planning on calling. Right now.

“What’re you doing?” Richie asked through the open window, stifling a yawn. Wentworth Tozier’s old car was sleeker than anything Bill could ever hope to get from his parents; he still rode his bike everywhere, like a fucking middle schooler. 

“Get out.” Bill commanded, and Richie cracked an eye open. He’d used _that_ voice, the one none of them ever seemed to be able to say no to, they’d both heard it. “I-I’m driving.”

The illusion broke. Richie slumped back down, eyes closing once more.

“_I’m_ napping. I’ll get out once everyone’s here. What are you doing?”

“Calling E-Eddie.”

“What, the psychic’s son? Are you shitting me?” Richie laughed, and he was fully awake now, popping his head out the window to try and see what Bill was doing on the phone. 

“He sent him flowers.” Stan’s voice rang out from the back seat and both Bill and Richie jumped, the latter banging his head on the top of the car. They shared a look; neither of them could remember exactly when Stan had gotten there. 

“You _did_?” Richie asked, incredulous, rubbing the bump on his scalp with a wince. Bill shifted to look at Stan, still in the process of deciding whether his embarrassment warranted a mild or severe kind of mortified. 

“H-How did you nuh-n-know that?”

Stan opened his mouth, closed it again. He looked tired, more tired than Bill had ever seen him. Tired—and confused, all of a sudden. 

“I don’t know.” He said, more to himself than anything else. Him and Bill were still looking at each other, communicating silently but clearly. Bill’s eyes asked _Are you still mad at me? _Stan’s responded with a resounding _Yes. Yes, Bill, I am._

Bill turned away from both him and Richie, who was whistling some cartoon jingle, and clicked the call button decisively. 

“Kaspbrak residence.” 

“Eddie?” 

“Bill?” He answered, after a pause. “I didn’t think you’d actually call.”

“S-Sorry for the sh-short notice.”

“Thanks for the flowers. They were nice.”

“D-Didn’t get you in t-too m-much trouble, then?” He was speaking slower than usual, trying his hardest not to trip over his words excessively

_(he thrusts his fists against the posts)_

and he hoped it wasn’t too obvious. 

“Well, I made the mistake of leaving them on the table while I went to put the note away? When I got back my mom was seething, talking about allergies and bugs, all that shit.” Eddie laughed stiffly. “She didn’t realize they were a gift, though, so no trouble, not really.”

“Crap, I-I didn’t ruh-realize y-you were allergic.”

Richie’s whistling stopped abruptly, interrupted by a cackle. Bill flipped him off.

“Oh, I’m not.” Eddie laughed again, although it didn’t sound all that amused. “She’s just kinda like that. Overprotective. I was sick a lot as a child so my immune system sucks. And I have asthma. And chronic migraines. And hypochondria.”

“Jesus.”

“Hah. Yeah. But, you know, I get it, germs are fucking gross. I hate bugs, actually. Not that the flowers had bugs—at least I hope not, although it’s fine, I washed my hands anyway—but I get the precaution. She just really cares. Still. They were… sweet. Thank you.” Eddie cleared his throat. “What are you up to today?”

“Exploring. W-Wanna c-come with?”

Behind him, Richie flicked his free ear, hissing in protest, but Bill shoved him away. 

“What kind of exploring?”

“Of the fuh-f-forest v-variety. How do you f-feel about forests?”

“What, like, ethically?”

“G-Germ-wise.”

“Too much dirt. Too many leaves. Too many bugs. Terrifying potential combination of the three. Wild animals, which means rabies. Probably tetanus. I read somewhere that the deeper you go into a forest the lighter the air, which doesn’t bode well for an asthmatic. It's summer, so heatstroke should be taken into account. Sweat is fucking disgusting. Did I say rabies already?”

“Y-You did.”

“Tree bark can be really sharp too.”

Bill chuckled, although he felt deeply unsure of himself all of a sudden. 

“Is that a r-rain check?”

“Oh, rain too. Can’t forget about rain.”

“R-Right.”

“So I guess I should bring an umbrella, then?”

Bill, despite himself, grinned. 

“B-Better safe than s-sorry.”

There was a long pause on the other end, during which he thought _this is it, he’s gonna hang up and delete your number and laugh that you had the nerve to call in the first place. Stupid, stubborn Bill Denbrough, doesn’t know what’s good for him or anybody else. Can’t ever shake an idea out of him once he’s latched on. _

“Alright.” Eddie said, surprisingly agreeable. “Text me the details. I’ll come to… what is this, exactly?”

“A quest.” Bill replied. “S-See you soon.” 

With that he hung up, turning back to face Richie, who was gaping at him—the look on his face was worth the whole ordeal alone. Absentmindedly, he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have been so abrupt with ending the call. But he’d sounded cool, so it was probably fine. Right? Right. 

“Dude, what the fuck! Take a vote next time, or something.”

“R-Relax.”

“He could be evil! His mom’s definitely fucking evil, you saw all that shit she pulled at the reading! Stan, back me up here.”

“You should’ve asked us first.” Stan agreed, eyebrow raised. Challengingly. _Why do you want a fight so goddamn bad? What did I _do _to you? _

But Stan’s eyes were unreadable. Bill sighed, shrugging. 

“S-Sorry.” He said, lamely. 

“Gosh, Big Bill, you really sound like you mean it.”

“Beep beep, R-Richie.” He snapped, and was vaguely surprised to see the way Richie’s eyes hardened. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he _was _pretty sure Richie was overreacting either way, just like he was positive Stan didn’t actually give a shit and was just trying to spite him. Which, fine, he was on weird terms with the both of them right now, but _he_ was the one who always had to make the tough decisions—he should be allowed to indulge himself sometimes, too. “Ben also a-asked if she c-could bring the H-Hanlon kid.” _Are you gonna bitch at her?_

“Mike?” Stan said, perking up. Bill blinked. 

“Uh, y-yeah. You know h-him?” 

“We met yesterday.” He answered, evenly. “He’s nice.”

“Nice.” Bill echoed. “Th-That’s good. S-So we have two g-g-guests. Let’s be on our best be-beh-b—_behavior_.” 

“Of course, B-B-Bill.” Richie sniped, and Bill clenched his jaw. “Wouldn’t dream otherwise.”

“Things are off to a great start.” Stan quipped. “Don’t you think?”

  


As he watched the whole group gather around the Tozier’s car, Bill found himself thinking that it was a particularly good day for questing. Not too sunny, but no high chance for rain. The air was humid, but not unbearably so, and there was a pretty consistent breeze blowing. He made a mark on the dirt with the tip of his sneaker, smiling softly to himself. They were meant to be here. It was absurd, but Bill believed it all the same. 

“Does this mean I’m not the new kid anymore?” Bev said, waving wryly over at Mike and Eddie. 

“I thought I was the new kid!” 

“You moved here a year and a half ago, Ben, I’ve only been in Derry for, like, four months.”

“Being the new kid is a state of _mind_, Beverly. I’m the perpetual new kid.”

“I could be really mean about your taste in music right now, Benny, but I’m not going to do that. Remember this moment.” 

“Okay.” Bill cut in, eyes raking over the six of them, all turning to look at him in rapt attention. “S-So, I was looking at s-some Google Earth images of D-D-Derry, specifically the l-land spanning fr-from the ch-chuh-church and on. And, w-well, there’s this sh-shape that’s visible in th g-grass. Here, s-see for yourself.” 

He held up the paper. Six heads leaned in. 

“Looks like a bird.” 

“Exactly, B-Ben. It’s a—”

“A hummingbird.” Stan finished. “The silhouette of one, at least. What could’ve possibly made that?”

“Aliens?” Richie proposed, and Eddie scoffed. 

“Aliens aren’t real, dipshit.” 

“Ye of little faith.”

“Maybe it was a really coordinated stampede.” Mike offered. 

“C-Close.” Bill snorted. “I don’t nuh-know exactly w-what caused it, but I w-w-would bet money on this being where the l-ley line is.”

The rest of the group was quiet, still studying the pictures. Bill felt something inside him ache looking at them; it all felt so _right. _

“We should probably explain some things.” Ben said, glancing at Eddie and Mike pointedly. 

“We can d-do that on the w-way.”

“You’re going to fit _seven people_ in _one car_?” Eddie balked.

“My dad’s car is an eight seater.”

“In Derry?”

“He’s a dentist.” Richie shrugged. “I dunno, he thought we needed it.”

“Probably was counting you and your personality as the six other people.” 

“Laugh it up, Stan the Man, I’m not the one walking to school every day!”

“You’re not driving, either, Rich, you get driven—”

“I have my license, I _could_ be driving, in fact, I’m driving us to the hummingbird crop circle today, so checkmate, Stanley!”

“Y-You are _not _d-driving us.” Bill asserted at the same time that Eddie said “I’m not getting into a car with _him_ behind the wheel.” They caught each other’s eye, smirking.

“I thought we said it wasn’t aliens…” Mike mumbled.

“Leyliens.” Richie supplied. 

Bill sighed. Off to a great start, indeed. 

It was Bev who ended up driving, Bill in the passenger’s seat with the coordinates spread out before him, Eddie, Richie, Ben in the back behind them, with Mike and Stan rounding off the back behind that. They were sitting directly next to each other rather than leaving a space in between, which Bill thought was impractical and unlike Stan in general, but whatever. Ben was deep into explaining the general lore around the ley lines, how there were rumored to be several in different parts of the world, how many were inactive and needed to be woken; Bill looked out the window as she spoke, and dreamed of traveling the world, of finding and waking lines in India, Switzerland, Japan, _anywhere_, the farther from Derry the better, but all he really needed was to know there was a meaning. He wasn’t sure what he would do without one. Scratch that—it wasn’t an option.

Bill wasn’t stupid. He knew he’d changed recently, and not for the better. He heard it in Richie’s jokes when he got too intense about It, felt it in Beverly’s hand over his when his stutter became near incomprehensible, saw it in the hesitant tilt of Ben’s head when he gripped her notebook too tightly. In the way Stan looked at him nowadays. Like neither of them could quite recognize the other. Bill wasn’t stupid. He just didn’t know how to stop. _When I find It—when _we_ find it—everything will go back to the way it was. _

And maybe it was stupid, to pin his hopes on the favor of something he had no concrete evidence existed, but what else was there to do? His house wasn’t a house anymore, although he was starting to get the sneaking suspicion it had never really been one in the first place. School was shit, and so was this town. His friends were the silver lining, he loved each of them in ways he had never learned to express, but that was alright because they loved him right back, because they _needed_ him and _listened _to him—but they were growing weary, he could feel it. All of them—_almost all of them_, he amended, glancing at Stan in the rearview mirror—had their own reasons for indulging in the search, reasons he didn’t fully understand and that they didn’t fully share, but it wasn’t the same. He would be lost without It. That was the difference. At any given point in time, the rest of them could walk away from it all. Not Bill. Not without getting Georgie back, not without making things right again. _When we find It, everything will go back to the way it was. Except, better this time. I’ll be better. I’ll make up for all of it. I promise I’ll make up for all of it._

Because he knew what he’d seen that day. Bill wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t crazy. He _knew_ what he’d seen that day, glowing red eyes and tufts of orange hair and a clear, clear voice 

_(FIND ME BILLY FIND ME BILLY FIND ME)_

and maybe it all seemed a little ridiculous from an outsider’s perspective, but the eyewitness accounts from previous years, they added up, _they added up_, and there had to be a reason behind Bill being the only one to see It, fate or something akin to it. Bill _believed_. It would be enough, in the end, would carry him through whatever tests of mettle he had to go through. Bill believed, and he would continue believing, and the world would reward him for his relentless faith, would send him Georgie, gift-wrapped in a yellow raincoat, and that same clear voice would tell him it was all over, would tell him his suffering had been real, if not physical, and that he’d reached the end of it. And then they’d all be Kings of Derry. And his parents would smile at him again. And Stan would smile at him again. And everything would go back to the way it was.

“Billiam.” Richie sang. Bill turned to face them. “Your time to shine!”

“What’s this about a favor?” Eddie asked. He was hugging himself, trying to compress, looking as though he fully regretted not taking a window seat. It was cute. Bill grinned.

“There’s th-this old D-Derry legend about a being called It, s-said to fuh-fall into an a-almost imp-permeable sleep every twenty-seven y-years. I-It’s supposed to l-live on the l-l-ley line, fuh-feed off the energy, right? W-Well, e-every twenty-seven years, It can be w-woken up, and whoever d-duh-does that is granted a fuh-fuh-favor.”

“Let me guess. It’s been twenty-seven years since the supposed last time?”

“Bingo.”

“So the ley line’s only the first step?” Mike asked, an intrigued inflection to his tone that made Bill like him right away. “Do we know how to wake it?”

“Maybe it’s already been woken.” Bev mused, quiet.

“Maybe none of it’s real.” Stan muttered.

“I think we’d know if it was woken.” Ben said. 

“Yeah,” Richie said, although he didn’t sound like Richie at all. “I think we would too.”

“Okay.” Eddie said, after a pause. “Is that all?”

“That’s all there is.” Richie replied, automatically, before freezing, locking eyes with Bill. It took his brain a few seconds to process, before it hit him like a ton of bricks. _Is that all, _that faraway voice had asked, and Richie, like clockwork, had replied in kind. _That’s all there is._

It was Eddie’s voice on the recording.

“Eddie.” Bev said, slowly. “Do you_ know_ Richie?”

“What?”

“I mean, have you ever spoken to Richie before yesterday afternoon. Do you _know_ him?” Her voice was steady, calculating. Bill unconsciously reached for his bag, where Richie’s tape recorder from the previous day had remained, forgotten amidst the ordeal with the reading.

The car was uncomfortably quiet. Eddie looked like a deer caught in headlights, and Bill’s heart hammered in his chest. _Nothing is coincidence_.

“Only his name.” He admitted, reluctantly. 

“And how is it, exactly, that you came to know Richie’s name?” Stan jumped in, catching on. Bill supposed Richie had explained the situation to him. 

“What is this, an interrogation?” Eddie replied, defensive. 

“What are you, guilty?” Richie shot back.

Eddie huffed. 

“Look. Just hear me out, okay? Nobody do anything rash.” With that, he reached into his backpack, pulling out a small, brown moleskine notebook with the initials B.H etched onto the top right corner.

“Oh.” Ben said, nonplussed. 

“You left it, so I brought it.”

“That’s not really why you brought it, though, is it?” Richie pushed, and Eddie glared at him.

“Also that doesn’t answer the question.” Stan added.

“Maybe we should all just take a second and breathe.” Mike proposed. 

“No.” They chorused.

“That’s fair.” 

“What does my notebook have to do with any of this?” Ben demanded. Eddie signaled for all of them to stand down, opening the notebook to the last page, where there was a drawing of several interconnected lines. 

“Those are ley lines.” Eddie said.

“Y-Yeah. I d-did those.”

“Oh. They’re nice.”

“Th-Thanks.”

“What _about_ the drawings?” The hysterical edge had found its way back into Richie’s voice. “What does that have to do with _me_?”

“So, obviously, my mother was lying when she said she didn’t know about the ley lines—don’t fucking interrupt me, wiseass, I already know you gathered as much—and I don’t really know why she did that, okay? She’s not usually so—”

“Senile?”

“Fuck you. I said don’t interrupt me, or do you not wanna hear this?” Richie clamped his mouth shut, and Eddie continued. “We call it the corpse road. Just because it goes through the church graveyard. I was sitting there with my mom, and I… saw Richie’s spirit. I asked you your name and you, well, you said it was Richie, obviously, and I asked if that was all, and you said ‘that’s all there is.’ I don’t usually see that stuff, I’m not psychic, and I didn’t even realize you were him, or he was you, or _whatever_, until you all showed up at my house. It’s why I came here today. Part of the reason, at least. Satisfied?”

For a second, miraculously, nobody spoke. Then—

“We better be.” Bev said, as the car came to a screeching halt. “Because we’re here.”

**Author's Note:**

> sorry maggie stiefvater rhiannon and i know the law  
anyway sometimes u get really invested in making a fictionalized universe a completely different fictionalized universe and you write so much more than is necessary about it while your friend actually does something noteworthy n makes art for it 
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/younghamIet)  
[my tumblr](https://telkinetic.tumblr.com)  
[rhiannon's twitter](https://twitter.com/gilbertblvthe)  
[rhiannon's tumblr](https://nadiea.tumblr.com)


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